Wrong Place, Wrong Time
by A.Boleyn
Summary: DL. Oneshot twist on the usual semismut. What happens when desire crosses professional boundaries? A meeting that will never end for poor Danny.


Rating: T for sexual references.  
Disclaimer: Using characters from CBS strictly for the purpose of amusing my deluded self. No profit is involved. I will however, accept donations.  
Note: This is a silly little piece I wrote in only a few days. A record, since I tend to drag out even the shortest pieces with edit after edit. This is a one shot! No beta was harmed in the making of this fic; thus, any errors are mine.

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**Wrong Place, Wrong Time**

Danny looks down into the seemingly bottomless mug of coffee before him. He likes it with just a tiny bit of cream. The shade of this concoction precisely matches her eyes, which might explain why he prefers his java this way. Why he used to take it straight black, until she came along.

He taps his fingers mindlessly on the table. Mac had called a meeting, and the entire team was present save one. A member who would be slightly late because she had spent twenty minutes searching for her badge, which she ultimately fished out from under Danny's dresser. Careless, frantic undressing the night before had sent it flying. When he had left his apartment that morning, she was just getting in the shower. Fighting off visions of her dripping wet and lathered in suds, he turns his attention to the clock and counts along with the second hand. _One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three…_

"Morning! Sorry I'm late." Lindsay breezes into the room at _twelve one-thousand_. She ducks her head sheepishly to avoid Mac's questioning glance, then situates herself across the table from Danny.

Mac begins passing out the field report, eleven pages in length, and Danny tries to focus. The rustling of the papers is not unlike his own raspy breathing last night, as he tried to hold on, tried to prevent slipping over the edge. And the white, slightly transparent sheets remind him of his ghostly pale complexion when he had looked in the bathroom mirror after their second round. She drains him – sex with Lindsay is not just body-sex, it was full on, heart-sex, mind-sex, soul-sex. He gulps as he feels a stirring inside, and once again tries to concentrate on the material before him: male, age 51, found stabbed to death in bed. Inevitably, his eyes leave the blurring type and return to the sight he cannot get enough of.

Her hair is neat and tidy, twisted and fastened up in a clip. She is beautiful no matter what – even bald, he presumes – but he much prefers the tussled, tangled mess he buries his face in nightly. Last night, those silky strands had swept over the entire length of his body in a torturous, skin-tingling fashion. No one would know her wanton ways, seeing today's modest, professional coif.

Lindsay isn't one for a lot of makeup. This morning, a light shade of lipstick and eyeliner was all she had time for. Danny fights off a smile as he remembers how smudged that eyeliner gets after endless tumbling in the sheets, and how her bare lips develop the most lovely, natural glow after deep kissing.

And the clothes. Oh, those annoyingly necessary garments that hide his most favorite parts. Danny realizes, though, that if she worked naked, no work would in fact get done. Today she wears a light blue cashmere sweater and sensible gray slacks. Perfect attire for a day at the lab, but he shivers as he recalls how amazing she looks with nothing but a sheet wrapped around her. And how she looks even better when he mischievously tugs that sheet from her grasp, leaving her exposed and radiant.

Danny inhales sharply. This coffee will no longer do, he needs something cold. As Mac's voice drones on, Danny suddenly pushes out his chair and crosses over to the water cooler, where he gulps down a cup full in hopes of putting out the fire within. Behind him, he hears Lindsay cough. It's a hoarse sound, a bit like the way she pants as she approaches the brink of ecstasy. The Styrofoam cup he is holding collapses from the pressure of his constricting hand, and the pieces rain down into the garbage can below. Four heads swivel to look at him, but he ignores the curious stares and returns to his chair.

Danny purposefully avoids looking at Lindsay, instead attempting once again to follow his boss's words. The victim was a dentist, with a long list of enemies. Then, he notices a movement out of the corner of his eye.

Lindsay is twirling a pen in her fingers. Easily she flips it around, and Danny prays that his face does not redden as he remembers the other skillful things her fingers can do. The things that leave him pleading, trembling, and gasping. How embarrassing if Stella, Mac, and Hawkes could read his mind right now. If they could see the way he curls up with Lindsay each evening, whispering candied words and awestruck by her very presence. Tense, he licks his lips.

"So our vic had a history of violent arguments with his stock broker," Stella speaks up, "but the brawl last month was the climax?"

Danny nearly moans out loud at the word. He is literally going to explode. Sweat dampens the hair at the base of his neck. Mac's response to Stella's question is totally lost on him as he tries to regain control of his mind.

Lindsay leans back in her chair, stretching her arms tiredly. The action causes her shirt to shift, revealing a brief glimpse of cleavage. Her neck – Danny's favorite spot to kiss – arches, the same way it does when she writhes underneath him in bed. Or on the sofa. Or the living room carpet. He swallows hard. They are a team of scientists who solve crimes – can't his coworkers see him slowly being murdered before them?

Casually, then, Lindsay tilts her head back to sip from a bottle of water, allowing her lips to linger on the rim a bit too long. She is completely oblivious to him just across the table, wriggling in misery. She has a knack for blocking out the rest of the world while working. In the lab, she sometimes will cast him a sweet smile, as if she isn't the same person who popped three buttons from his shirt while ripping it off the night before. He tries to glare at her, to send her a warning, but she is lost in the pages before her.

She is being so polite, so composed. He watches her reading over the paperwork, glancing up at Mac occasionally and nodding her head thoughtfully. Her hands are folded neatly in front of her, a stark contrast to the white knuckles which had gripped his headboard mere hours ago. This same woman had just last night been shouting demands, begging for release, doing things to him that left him half dead but never more alive.

"If there aren't any questions, I guess we'll head out," Mac announces at last. "Lindsay and Stella, I'll meet you two in the trace lab. Hawkes, you and Danny go check out the victim's apartment."

The five of them exit the room, Danny watching Lindsay's swishing figure as she departs down the hallway with Stella. She leaves him with no parting words, no secret gesture, not even eye contact. Her hips sway in a rhythm that makes him weak in the knees.

"You ready to head out?" Hawkes asks suddenly, causing him to snap out of his reverie.

Danny wrinkles his brow in confusion. He stutters. "Um. Head out where?"

"The scene," Hawkes replies, but he is greeted with another blank stare from Danny. "The dentist? Stabbed in his bed? Mac just spent twenty minutes talking about it – the case!"

"Case? What case?"


End file.
